


She Never Wanted to Leave

by RoweenaJAugustine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Jenny of Oldstones song, Jeyne might be crazy or she might not be, Mild Love Triangle, Moving On, Past Character Death, Short, direwolves see everything, it's kinda up for interpretation, so does Bran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoweenaJAugustine/pseuds/RoweenaJAugustine
Summary: There are ghosts in Winterfell, and ghosts, living or dead, like to wander.





	1. High in the Halls

**Author's Note:**

> context: A mix of slow and book elements. Jeyne Westerling met and married Robb Stark in the same way. Red Wedding happened in the same way. Jon Snow and his sisters took Winterfell back in the show way. 
> 
> Big thanks for Darkwolf76 for helping me decide what to do with this plot bunny and her encouragement and for her help in editing :D

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone  
Jenny would dance with her ghosts…_

Her marriage had been a fruitless one, though not for lack of trying. It was treachery and lies that kept her womb empty, it was her trust and love for the woman who she'd called 'mother'. The years had made her cold, but her mother's betrayal made her suspicious. Hateful, even.

After Robb was murdered alongside his lady mother, Blackfish Tully kept them safe within Riverrun—she and her mother. Her brother, Raynald, had stayed at home, to keep the Craig secure. When Edmure the Fool surrendered the castle, mother was so quick to snatch the crown she'd saved. She still had a little scar on her cheek from where mother's ring broke open the skin.

Oh how she'd wailed when mother confessed that she'd made sure Robb had no heir. Her husband was dead, and he'd left them no children to make her suffering bearable. The wolves howled no more, and Jeyne doubted they ever would again.

"You'll be promised to a high lord, Jeyne. A  _better_  lord, one not so foolish as Robb Stark." Her mother's eyes had gleamed with promise, and though her voice hadn't been kind, there was something about Sybell Spicer's promise that made Jeyne realize her mother was trying to  _assure_  her.

What kind of woman thought it reassuring to tell a grieving widow that she was better off now that her husband was dead? What sort of mother already planned for her child's second marriage, so soon after death?

For the first time in her life, Jeyne had wanted to hurt her own mother. Blinded with rage, Jeyne had reached for her mother's face, intent on clawing out her eyes, but a guard had stopped her before she could. She never tried again, too lost in grief, too busy chasing her ghosts.

When the siege had ended, the former queen was taken back to the Craig, her womb empty, her heart broken, not a crown in sight.

Years passed—the snows came just as Robb had always said they would. She was twenty when the North was won back by the Starks. The Lannisters had promised her wretched mother another marriage two years after Robb's murder, but circumstances Jeyne had no heart to care for had halted their plans.

Jeyne had found some paltry form of satisfaction to see her mother's displeasure at promises unfilled. And yet still, it wasn't the justice she deserved. It wasn't enough, it would never be enough. Not to avenge Robb, sweet, good, beautiful Robb.

When the west fell to northern forces, she and her family had been put in chains and escorted to Golden Tooth—where all Lannister supporters were to bend the knee or face the sword. Jeyne thought of death with idle curiosity. Since Robb's death three years before, she had become a sullen, cold shell of her former self.

Haunted. A ghost haunting the Craig. Even her brother said so.

Sleep was hard to come, and elixirs and dreamwine did her little good. So Jeyne walked. She walked the ruin of her castle at the Craig, walked the grounds outside, inside, outside and back again. She walked until sleep relented and came for her.

She first saw King Jon as they were ushered into the court yard, astride his horse, clad in wolf's furs and his dark northern features drawn. He looked very much like a king, though not at all like her dead husband. He was colder, a northerner with the stuff of winter in his heart, wolf's blood running hot in his veins.

Jeyne expected death, but she was spared where other lords had lost their heads. After all, she had been a queen, once. The Queen in the North, wife of King Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. Robb had given her a crown to match his, heavy and iron and ugly, but a crown all the same. Jon Snow, her husband's base born brother was King in the North now, and brought the west to its knees. He wasn't as Robb described him to be. Jon Snow was much colder than she'd imagined him.

But he still loved his brother, and when he learned her name, he relieved her of her chains, and gave her a room, food and warm wine.

"Your mother will die." He told her in the pale morning light of the chambers he'd given her, his voice somber, his face stoic, though he gazed upon her with something akin to pity. After all, what woman wouldn't feel her heart break to know their mother was promised for death?

She needed it not.

"It's what she deserves." She had answered. But King Jon's mercy had been given when she'd asked for it. "She betrayed me, and it cost me my husband, least of all. But I ask you spare her life. A cruel, lying traitor, and still she is my mother."

"What would you have me do with her, then, my lady?"

"Send her,  _penniless_ , to Essos."

During the years, she thought of all the ways to avenge Robb, all the things she would do to the people who had hurt him, his lady mother and his army. Jon Snow and his sisters had done away with the Boltons and Freys. At the very least, Jeyne wanted to punish her mother in the ways she'd thought of as she stared up at the canopy.

And what better way to let her suffer than in poverty, a scheming climber like her. She who would have given her daughter to a Lannister.

"Let her find her way there, let her go hungry and beg and be  _humiliated_." The thought pleased her, and she knew she should be ashamed of it, but she thought of Robb and all the sons they'd planned for. The little wolves her mother had stolen from her. "Let her grow old, and brittle and die  _alone_  in a strange country, knowing she put herself there when she conspired with Tywin Lannister."

The bastard king regarded her a moment.

"They said you were sweet, and kind." His voice was softer this time. From what he had learned from those who knew his brother's queen, Jeyne Westerling had been sweet, warm and almost timid.  _Gentle_ , he had thought. Robb had liked girls who blushed, girls with soft hands and gentle temperament.

Robb had loved her enough to forsake his vow to House Frey, a mistake that cost him his mother and dozens of northern lords their lives. A sad song, but not the truth. While some spoke of the Young Wolf's love for his Westerling bride, others spoke of the green boy who took the maidenhead of a highborn girl, and married her to make it right. Robb was honourable as their lord father, perhaps even more so, and it had killed them both the same.

Robb's reasons were nothing, now. He was dead, and his childless queen had remained.

"I was." She said, folding her hands. "Then my husband was murdered, and my own mother provided the knife to his killers."

"As you wish, my lady." Sybell Spicer was nothing to him, and her betrayal was felt sharpest by her daughter. He could grant her the justice she wanted without feeling it was stolen. It would never be enough for Jeyne, not truly. But she would take what she could claim. "I beg you, make your brother bend the knee. I have no wish to take House Westerling from the world."

Tears came to Jeyne's eyes then, and Jon knew he'd upset her. Of course she was upset. Her mother was sentenced to die in exile and he'd just threatened her brother with the block. The former queen sniffed, a dainty hand coming to brush away her tears. Jon sat back, solemn and regretful.

"He will yield." She croaked. "He will."  _But perhaps he shouldn't,_  some evil thought said.  _Perhaps House Westerling should be torn root and stem from this world_. "I'll  _make sure_  he obeys. But I will not stay here. I can't."

"You're free, my lady. Free to go where you choose." Jon promised her, leaning forward and resting his hand on the table, but not daring to take her hand in his. The king sighed softly. Where would she go without funds, without guards to protect her? Robb would come back if only to murder him if he didn't protect her. "You will always have a place in Winterfell, my lady. If you ever choose to come north, you will have a home."

Jeyne sniffled once more, keeping her eyes locked on the rushes on the floor to hide the wet shame on her face.

The new King in the North told her she was free. She could go wherever she wanted, and no one would ever take her captive again. But the south was where Robb had died, a place whose beauty hid the evil beneath. So her eyes turned north.

It was odd, that she would find herself settled in Winterfell, the home of her husband. But Sansa Stark was kind, and if she saw a threat in Jeyne's presence, she thought better to keep her close at hand. It did not matter to Jeyne. Let Sansa Stark play her game, but she could rest easy. Jeyne wanted no crown, she wanted no power or say in the matters of the Northern Kingdom.

When last she donned a crown, it had cost her dearly and she would never be as she was.

Her heart only longed for peace.

Peace was quiet, and soon, she found, her ghosts had come north with her. There were few distractions in Winterfell, and so her days were often long, spent talking with a few ladies in the castle, knitting, treating with the Lady of Winterfell and simply walking through the grounds. Winterfell had gained a new ghost, all the way from the westerlands.

Her time with Sansa was of great comfort to Jeyne—she and Robb had the same hair, the same eyes…but as Lady of Winterfell, often, the younger girl was too busy to receive her. Jeyne admired the younger girl, she was smart and she was kind and knew that the common folk needed food and safety above all else. Sansa wanted no more wars, same as Jeyne. Rarely did she sit with Arya, the Avenging Wolf as she was called by the small folk. She was good too. Swift with her blade, but good. Never did she meet with Bran Stark, and never did she want to.

But at night, her ghosts would visit her.

The dead do not speak, they are as silent as their own graves. But they watch.

Robb first came to her the night he was murdered. He was a horror to behold that first night because how could he be standing by her bedside when he was miles away at the Twins? Jeyne knew the moment she saw him, but hadn't wanted to believe it. She'd screamed so loudly, half of Riverrun had come running. Jeyne had thought he was only a horrible dream, because he was gone when the guards barged into the room. She'd thought she was going mad, then he came the next night, then the next and the one after that. Then word came to Riverrrun that their northern king was dead.

Sometimes she still wondered if she was.

But in the years that came after, Robb's presence kept the torches glowing, kept the dark at bay, kept her from ending it all. And though every moment she looked upon him, unable to touch him, unable to hear to him, Jeyne looked forward to his visits. He was the sweetest torment she did not know how to be without, not anymore.

Robb would walk at her side, stand beside her bed while she tried to sleep, stand at the door when she knit by the fire…almost every night he came, and almost every night Jeyne went deep into the hours of the night without sleep. He was not as he was the day they murdered him; he was as clean and handsome as he had been in life. But perhaps that only made her longing worse.

She could not tell the moment her mother died, but she knew the day. One evening, only Robb had come to her, and the next, it had been her mother.

Her mother's dark eyes watched her, soft and sad. So very sad. Jeyne felt an uncomfortable urge to comfort the woman, but she pushed the urge aside. "You would have died in disgrace, anyway. I had you  _spared_." She said, turning away from the sight of her. Jeyne hugged herself tight, praying that her mother would leave her be. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let her tears fall. The woman had taken enough tears from her.

 _Mother_ , she thought _. I loved you, I trusted you, and you betrayed me worse than any enemy would have._ And now she was dead, and haunted the daughter she'd destroyed.

She turned her head, regarding the ghost over her shoulder. "It was more than you deserve." And yet her voice had lost it's malice, and was as softly uttered as a frightened child. She hated her.  _Hated_. The pure, trusting love only a child could have for their mother had soured, and she hoped no peace came to her in death. But Sybell Spicer would always be her mother, and her betrayal would never cease to cut Jeyne to the very core.

But it is a terrible thing to realize ambition had been more important than love.

Mother stayed with her the rest of the night, walking behind her when she wandered throughout Winterfell.

When Jeyne stopped at the battlements to watch out at the black abyss of the moors, mother crept closer. Jeyne couldn't look at her, but she could see from the corner of her eye that Sybell stood beside her. When she sat before the heart tree, mother sat beside her, staring down into the black water of the pond. Jeyne wondered if her mother was too ashamed to look up at the weeping face of the heart tree. When she went back to her chambers, exhausted beyond coherence, Jeyne blinked up at her mother, and for a moment, thought she was a little girl again, back at the Craig. She dreamed her mother kissed her head, but it could only be a dream.

Then, when morning came, mother had gone and never came back again.

Often, the remaining Starks and the Bastard King would invite her to sup with them, and Jeyne accepted each invitation. It was good to have people around, to be close to people who had known and loved Robb. Sometimes they would talk about better days, about growing up in Winterfell. Never about the wars, and Jeyne was grateful.

For a short time, she got to hear of a more peaceful, innocent, happier time in her husband's life. She could imagine him smiling, light, unburdened by war and leadership. She could imagine her with him, what their lives would have been like if they had met in a world without wars, without lies and thrones.


	2. The Ones Lost and Found

_The ones she had lost_  
and the ones she had found  
and the ones who had loved her the most

The Starks and their baseborn brother treated her well, better than her own family had. They were kind, they never seemed to blame her for what had happened to their brother and mother. But Jeyne couldn’t fool herself into thinking she hadn’t played a part in his demise.

Before they’d even met, Robb was meant for a Frey girl. Instead, he’d taken her maidenhead and married her to spare her the shame. She had thought it was terribly romantic, a strange and handsome king thinking simple little Jeyne Westerling was worthy to be his queen. Now she looked back and wanted to slap herself. What she wouldn’t give to have lived in shame and Robb to be alive and married to a Frey. But the Freys were dead. Their house was decimated, never to rise again, the corpses of Walder, his sons and grandsons were ashes, their castle given to a riverlord.  

And she was here, in his boyhood home, a guest of his brothers and sisters.

She thought of Edmure Tully, the fool who had surrendered Riverrun and all it’s inhabitants over to the monsters who had murdered his nephew and sister. It was his wedding to a Frey girl which had lured Robb to the Twins. Jeyne hoped Edmure hated his Frey wife.

One night, Sansa and Arya bid them farewell as soon as they were done the meal, and Bran had gone with them, silent and watching as he always did. It unnerved Jeyne, because when his eyes met hers, she felt like he could see into her soul, see every horrible thought, every impossible desire and every regret she’d ever had. Or would ever have.

A part of her wondered if he was touched in the head, but she knew there was something more to the young man. Something deeper. A secret he knew that would never be whispered.

“I suppose I should find my bed.” Jeyne murmured, starting to stand. The others had left them a while ago, and she thought it a good time to leave the king to his thoughts.

“You can stay.” The king interrupted. “From what Sam tells me, you wander the halls most nights.”

Jeyne sat back, hands settled in her lap. She hadn’t known she’d been watched, least of all by Maester Sam. She had been more suspicious of Ser Davos, Jon’s Hand, over the fat maester who always smiled. In the months she’d resided at Winterfell, no one had ever mentioned her nightly habits, and she had come to think perhaps no one had noticed.  “I find it hard to sleep, most nights.” She confessed. “I am sorry, Your Grace, if I’ve been a bother.”

“Call me Jon.” He asked. “At least in private. Family and friends need not be so…formal.” Jeyne was struck for a moment. He considered her a friend? The thought warmed her more than it should have.

“Alright.” She did not say his name, not yet. It seemed much too familiar. She did manage the barest hint of a smile. King Jon did not seem much like her husband had been. They did not look like brothers, nor did their temperaments match. Where Robb burned like a fire, Jon froze, patient and lasting. Both had been named king by their people, but one had lost his kingdom because he had trusted someone who had not deserved it. But in moments like these, she could see a little bit of Robb in the new king, hints of their shared boyhood shining through his brown eyes.

“I can have the maester provide you with a sleeping tonic. Or some dreamwine.” Sam had offered to go to Jeyne himself in the privacy of her chambers to offer it to her, but Jon told him he would ask her.

“I’ve had dreamwine before, and while it brings a calm sort of slumber, I would wake and find myself wondering if that was what death felt like.” She paused, and Jon regarded her carefully. “To just…go into the dark, see nothing, feel nothing.” It was agony to think it—to think Robb could be gone into the darkness, alone and leaving her to face it alone too. She couldn’t stand it, and so every night she walked with her ghost to assure herself death was not the end for them.

Jon’s eyes were sad, but when he spoke, he was kind. “I am sorry, my lady. Wander as you wish if it brings you peace, only take a guard with you.”

“Forgive me, Jon. I’ve spoken too much of such terrible things.”  She did her best to be kind and warm, but oftentimes it felt like she was pretending. Even with Sansa and the other women she had become friendly with.

“You spoke your mind, I can ask for nothing less.”

“Still, I am a guest in your home. I ought to mind myself.”

“You would have lived here anyway, once the war was over and Robb returned north.” Jeyne’s eyes flickered up to his. Together, they were silent, thinking and mourning for things that had never come true.

“What was he like?” she asked softly. “As a brother, I mean.” When Robb found out about Theon Greyjoy’s betrayal and the deaths of little Bran and Rickon, he’d been crazed with grief. One moment, she’d been holding him and feeling his shoulders shake with sobs. The next, her back was against the cold stone floor, her skirts were rucked up, and her hands were helping his undo the laces of his breeches. She had given him what comfort she could, and they had all suffered for it.

The silence that followed was warmer, as Jon’s smile pulled up his lips.

Jon Snow never looks so happy as when he’s telling her about the Starks as children. He and Robb would play at being knights. He liked to pretend to be Aemon the Dragonknight as a boy, a favorite of her girlhood. They would swim in the hot springs of the godswood, and steal sweet treats before supper. Jon told her about the day Arya had been born, how it had rained for a day and a half, and that she was the first baby he’d ever gotten to hold. He told her about the tricks he and Robb had played on the younger children. They had _terrified_ Sansa, Arya and Bran once by dousing themselves in flour and hiding in the crypts. He did not say who lured them down there, but Jeyne knew it had to have been the Greyjoy traitor.

Her laugh was softer at that story.

“Ghosts don’t look like they’re covered in flour.” Jeyne heard herself saying, watching the fire. She huffed a laugh then. “That was a very wicked trick, though. Poor children. It sounds like you two scarred them for life.”

“Not Arya.” The king chuckled. “She smacked Robb’s arm and called him stupid for making baby Bran cry.” _The Avenging Wolf had a long history, it seemed_ , Jeyne thought with a pleased grin.

No one made mention of her private conference with the king after their platters had been removed. Not even Sansa.

Only Ser Davos had made mention of it—“His Grace tells me you and he spoke after supper, a sennight ago.” Truly, if Ser Davos hadn’t mentioned it, Jeyne would start thinking their meetings were a secret.

Jeyne had turned to him, startled at his words. “Yes, we did, my Lord Hand.” She admitted, and fearing he would somehow come to the wrong conclusion she was quick to describe their meeting. “We talked about my late husband and what he was like as a boy.”

The grizzled old man nodded. “I am glad for it, my lady. It is good to talk about the ones we have lost and remember better times.” Jeyne couldn’t agree more.

Jeyne felt more at ease the coming days—she sat comfier in her chair, and when they moved to sit near the hearth, she didn’t hesitate or wonder if she was overstepping. Their talk was light, and the air was so very warm. After a little while, their conversations shifted from Robb, to Jon’s time at the Watch, and then to the most obscure topics Jeyne could imagine. Jeyne looked forward to each meeting.

They were friends, surely. What was the harm in speaking about happier times with a friend? Jeyne had been without friends for a very long time, and she thought, perhaps, so was Jon. At least a friend who had known Robb.

Another night, they were left alone and Ghost had nosed his way into the chamber, his massive form looming above her where she sat. Fear gripped her belly, but she refused to let it show. She must not have done a very good job.

“I can send him away, my lady, if you wish.” The king offered out of kindness. He knew his wolf frightened most people, and until now, the wolf had been good to keep away from Jeyne.

“No, no.” she declined. “Robb’s wolf frightened me. I realized too late how special he was.” She admitted shamefully. She dared not think of what had happened to Robb’s wolf. When she first heard the rumours, she’d been sick on the floor and locked in her room for days because she couldn’t stop crying.

A moment past and Ghost’s great hulking body lowered down at the king’s feet, his tail brushing across Jeyne’s skirts. They called Jon the White Wolf, and Jeyne realized how fitting that name was.

“He would never hurt you, Jeyne. I promise.” It was the first time he’d ever said her name without her title coming before it. Her cheeks felt warm, but it was only the shame of being afraid of the wolves that had bonded to House Stark.

“I know. They would only hurt someone who would hurt someone they love. They are protective.” Grey Wind had once bared his teeth at her, and Robb had him chained. They had only been married a day and a half. The wolf had better sense than any human would, and a little part of her wished he had acted out his protective instincts and opened her throat before word got out that the King in the North had married a Westerling.

“If you call to him, he might come and say hello.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, wide and fearful at his suggestion. “Oh no, I’m not that brave, yet.”  She replied with a little laugh. She ignored the way her belly felt fluttery when the king smiled at her, a laugh on his lips.


	3. Spun Away Sorrow and Pain

_The ones who'd been gone for so very long_   
_she couldn't remember their names_   
_They spun her around on the damp old stone_   
_Spun away all her sorrow and pain_

One evening as Jeyne dined with the Starks and the King, Bran spoke for the first time. During all the other times they supped together, Bran had been silent, taking little food and no drink.

Sansa had been saying something to Arya, she didn't know what, and Arya had replied that with all the death that had occurred at the Twins, it was likely haunted. Bran broke the silence before it went on too long, and he sounded so very far away as his words washed over the table. "We are all haunted by the past, but we must let the dead rest if we wish to move forward with the living."

Though the strange young man was not looking at her, Jeyne shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Another beat of silence, until Ser Davos, bless him, raised his goblet of wine. "Hear, hear!" he toasted. The tension was broken, and they all raised their cups with him.

"Speaking of moving forward," Sansa began after they had all swallowed their drink. "I think it's time you start looking for a queen, Jon." Jeyne felt even more uncomfortable then, and was silent the rest of the conversation. When their platters were cleared from the table, she bid Jon farewell, not wanting to sit and talk with him with Sansa's words playing through her mind.

_It isn't right_ , she thought, pacing the floor. She was a wife, or  _had_  been, and had vowed to never marry again. Jeyne planned to die before her mother forced her into a wedding gown. She'd hidden a paring knife under her bed, awaiting the day, ready to lie in bed as her wrists spurted her lifeblood. Ready to let the dark come, hardly daring to hope Robb would be there when she went into the life beyond.

She had been ready to  _die_  rather than have a second husband. And yet she looked forward to Jon Snow's company each night, she was excited to hear more of his stories, to see him laugh, to make  _him_  laugh. And when he smiled at her like she was more than the bereft widow of Robb Stark…

Now he had to look for a queen. When he did find a suitable bride, that would herald the end of their friendship, and that brought such a wave of despair she could hardly stand it.

_It isn't right. Stop it, cut it out now before it's too late._

But Jeyne could not stop herself from staying with him an extra hour after dining with him and his siblings.

It felt sweet and warm for that hour, even content, but when she left, a terrible feeling of guilt would rise again. How could she be happy without Robb? To her shame, she recalled how she'd wanted to move closer to Jon, to lay her head on his shoulder, to hold his hand in hers. Surely, she was a terrible wife. How could she wish to be so familiar with her husband's brother?

She thought of Robb and their time together. It was supposed to have been longer, forever. They'd planned for children, had tried countless times to make them, but it never happened. Boys, they'd wanted. Boys to name after his father, and the brothers he'd lost _. Living ghosts_ , she thought _._

Brothers who were still alive when he took her maidenhead in his grief.

Their marriage was based on a lie by Theon Greyjoy. A part of her could not be sorry for it either, though she was sad two little boys had died for it. Sometimes, she wondered if Robb would have touched her out of pure desire, had he not taken her out of grief. Jeyne didn't want to know the answer to that. Neither would make her feel any happier.

"Ghost, come. Come." She implored softly a few nights later, holding out her hand so the wolf could take a sniff. Jon watched as the wolf lolled his massive head back down to the floor with a groan, opening his jaws to yawn. A soft whine came from the wolf then, a sound Jeyne found as endearing as a mewling newborn babe.

Jeyne sighed, dropping her hand to her lap, a grin twitching at her lips. She had never been so endeared by her husband's wolf, but then she had always been too afraid to try. "He's hesitant, these days." Jon said from his chair across from her. "Tired, oftentimes." He scratched Ghost behind the ears.

"He wanders as I do, I suppose."  _Ghosts wander, whether they are alive or dead_.

Jon shifted, shifting his eyes down to focus intently on where he scratched the wolf.

"Apologies, my lady." Jeyne's ears perked up. It had been a while since he'd called her 'my lady' in private. "I only wanted to make sure no harm befell you during your nightly walk." It was such a sweet way to put her odd ritual, and Jeyne tucked away that little bit of joy for later.

For a moment, Jeyne stared at the man across from her, slowly working his words over in her head, her brows furrowed. "Did...did you send Ghost to look after me at night?" Jon's answer was silence, and it was enough for Jeyne. His eyes shifted from the wolf to stare at the hands in her lap. "Why?" she asked softly.

"Ghost is keener than any guardsman. He'll keep you safe. Always."

"Thank you." Was all Jeyne could think to say in reply.

When she left that night, her heart was fluttering madly in her chest. She wanted to run, she wanted to jump, to scream. Whether from joy or sorrow, she couldn't tell. But she felt warm.

As always, the shame came upon her, not so swiftly as before, but it still came to trample down whatever else she'd felt before.

_It isn't right._ Panic was starting to pool in her belly, borne of shame and fear, made worse that she could feel  _his_  eyes on her. Watching, silently as always. She couldn't look at him, fearing the hurt and shame that she imagined on his face.

" _Please_  don't look at me," she found herself begging, close to tears. That night, she wept, truly wept, for the first time in ages.

She stayed in her room the next day, and told Maester Sam that she was suffering with her monthly pains and wanted not to be disturbed. The poor fat man looked so startled when she screamed at him to go away, after he'd only offered her a potion to make the pain dull. But her outburst had worked and she was left alone for three days more.

Jeyne told Jon later that the last time she was offered a potion, it had been from her mother. He asked nothing more, knowing the sad story already, and not wanting to dig into wounds that would never fully heal.

But really, she hadn't even  _thought_  of her mother when Maester Sam offered her pain relief. She only thought of Jon and Robb and how terrible she was to want after something she could never have. She'd yelled at him because she thought if he looked at her long enough, he would realize her secret shame.

The moons waxed and waned over Winterfell, and Jeyne found herself coming to love the castle. She loved the nippy corridors, the warm pipes running through the walls, she loved the godswood and the hot springs there, she loved the tapestries and loved the people who would smile at her.

It was over a year after her initial arrival at Winterfell, before she realized that it had become almost like…home.

And yet, sleep was coming less now, her sorrow and guilt keeping her up, well past the end of her wandering. She thought of a life that almost was, the life that would never be, and the life she wanted. All of them impossible dreams.

Robb had taken to standing by the door, a silent, watchful guardian. He looked so sad, these days, his brow furrowed and his mouth drawn downward. The candlelight flickered through him and onto the wall behind him. She could hardly remember how the light made his hair shine like polished copper. One night, wearied after her evening walk, Jeyne sat on her bed and watched him back.

"I don't even know if you can hear me." She said, drawing her knees to her chest. "I never have, not really." The confession was strangled, because she had finally given a voice to her doubts, brushing away that which had once given her so much comfort. Even if he hadn't been able to speak back, just thinking that he could hear and understand her had been enough. "I just enjoyed talking to you. I wanted to believe you heard me, that maybe, somehow, you could communicate back." She used to hope one day, he would speak to her, tell her that he loved her, how to escape, to not loose courage and hope, that he didn't hate her or blame her… Her eyes burned with tears. "I wonder if you ever feel as  _I_  feel when I find you here. Do you feel the same agony, because you can't speak to me?"

Silence was her only answer.

When she laid down in her bed, she curled up on her side, facing her husband. She liked to watch him as she fell asleep.

"Goodnight, love." She whispered, shortly before falling into a fitful sleep that left her feeling half as tired as when she closed her eyes.

She had never slept so soundly as when Robb slept beside her, curled around her form, keeping her warm and safe. Her bed had been empty since Robb left her that final time, and she had never wanted to see it filled again.

Each day, she grew paler, the dark rings beneath her eyes making even the politest ladies stop and whisper to themselves. When she saw her, Sansa would inquire about her health, and always Jeyne would reply she was well. Ser Davos had said she looked half a ghost and should eat more. That night, to ease the old man's worries, she cleaned her plate. Maester Sam once stopped her in the corridor to tell her that if she needed anything, she was welcome to come to his solar. Jeyne was particularly touched by the fat man's kindness, since the last interaction she'd had with him had ended with her screaming at him to go away.

Jon mentioned it one morning, as they walked together to the Great Hall where he would hear the complaints of his people.

"Please, take the dreamwine, my lady." He pleaded. "If only for one night, please. You need your sleep."

Jeyne only shook her head, smiling her pretty, placating smile. "You have no need to worry for me, Your Grace."  _You have no right to worry over me_ , she thought.

Jon stopped, turning to face her. "I don't know what has changed, but I do know you aren't as well as you were the day you stepped into Winterfell."

Jeyne shifted on her feet, feeling very uneasy, almost angry. "Is that your order, Your Grace? To take the dreamwine?"

"I would never order you. Never." His brown eyes stared into hers, and she tried her best to be doubtful. What reason could he have for wanting her to take dreamwine? Did he pity her, or feel responsible for her? But somehow her doubts started melting away as soon as she considered them, like snow against warm skin. "For your own sake, I beg you to consider it."

Jeyne thought a moment, wondering why he fretted so much. It wasn't as though she were close to death, she was only very tired most days. Jon had never been unkind to her, had never given her a reason to doubt him. But neither had her mother.

"I can't." she finally said. "I am sorry." She remembered what he'd said to her once.  _Nothing that comes before the word 'but', matters very much_. So Jeyne said nothing else. Jon was silent, regarding her in a way that Jeyne could almost call sad.

That night, after supper, they were alone again and their words from the morning seemed to have been forgotten. But when Jon offered her a drink, her suspicions rose, although she accepted. He handed her a cup, while he took up an ale horn. She asked to trade cups, claiming she'd never drunk from an ale horn before and Jon relented, handing his drink over to her.

She felt a bit guilty for mistrusting Jon of all people, but she felt safer drinking from his cup.

"Come, Ghost." She called after a while. At once, the cold nose of the direwolf met her hand, pushing his warm body beneath her arm as he caught her scent. "Good boy." She cooed.

"He likes you." Jon smiled, taking a sip of his ale.

"He's warmed up to me." She smiled back, rubbing at his thick, furry neck. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. "Do you think he has any pups?" Jon choked on his ale, but Jeyne continued on. "I mean he is fully grown. Do you think he's ever…" she blushed. "Gotten a litter on a bitch?" The words were ugly and stupid on her tongue, sour as bile.

Jon coughed a few more times, and finally when he'd recovered, he grunted, "No, t-there are no pups of his."

"That is a shame," she said, hoping to smooth over the odd turn their conversation had taken. "They are beautiful creatures. The next generation would be lucky to have a wolf of their own."

"They're not easy to train."

"No, I imagine not. But Starks certainly can." As though to demonstrate her point, she reached down to rub the wolf's ears.

Jon's dark eyes flickered between her and the beast at her feet. "I don't think Ghost plans for pups any time soon." He mumbled. Jeyne took a sip of her own ale, letting the fluid burn down her throat and settle into her already warm belly.

She wasn't drunk, but still the ale loosened her tongue some.

"I had always hoped I could grow to love Grey Wind. To grow beyond my fear of him, so maybe my son could ride him one day, like a pony." The firelight danced in her eyes when she spoke of the silly dream. A grin pulled at her lips, and she took another sip. As she swallowed, her warm brown eyes flicked back to Jon's, who had not seemed to stop watching her. "Perhaps one day, your own son will ride astride Ghost, instead."

Finally, a grin pulled at the always solemn king's lips. "Or my daughter." Jeyne laughed at that, knowing that the Starks were now known for their fierce women.

"She would drive you mad, I'm sure." She giggled, feeling like she were drifting down a sweetwater stream during the height of summer.

"A girl as fierce and strong as—as Arya?" he seemed to have stopped himself, but he recovered quickly. Jeyne did not question him, knowing whoever he meant to say at the start was a private thought. "She would never drive me mad."

Jeyne lifted her cup to give a toast. "To my King Jon's future heirs."

Jon raised his. "To my Lady Jeyne's happiness."

They drank, both taking long sips from their cups.

She wanted to ask him about Alys Karstark, then. Over their meal, Sansa brought up the fact that a few northern lords were bringing more of their pretty daughters to Court. Alys Karstark was one of them, though she had no father to bring her, so her ambitions were entirely her own. She was northern, highborn and of marriageable age. Jeyne thought the girl was plain, and quiet as a mouse. Not to mention her father had killed the Lannisters Robb had taken prisoner years before, effectively weakening his stance further. She wasn't right for Jon, in Jeyne's opinion.

But just like when the other Starks were present, she could not speak of it.

Instead, Jeyne took another drink, and curled her arm to her chest, the horn resting against her breasts.

"Will you really not take the dreamwine, Jeyne?"

Her eyes flickered up to his, noticing that he'd leaned his elbows down onto his knees. "No."

"Why?"

Jeyne was silent for a long while. Without a word she uncrossed her legs and leaned downwards to give Ghost a good scratch on his neck.

"Just after Robb died, I took it." Ghost was so soft beneath her fingers, and he arched his meaty neck into her legs to grant her more access. "I drank it every night for weeks." In those days she hadn't wanted to see Robb, she wanted to fade into oblivion, where there was no pain or loss or betrayal. Where there was nothing and no one. "I would even drink it in the day, just to go away for a few hours. Then, one morning, I woke up and…it was like I was still asleep. I felt nothing. It was the most terrible thing."

Her heart felt heavy to give words to the memory that had never been spoken aloud before.  _This is what death is like_ , she had thought hazily as she glided through the Great Hall of castle Craig. Her nightgown trailed behind her, and she imagined she looked like a specter.

"I can't go back to that, Jon. Not ever. Not once." When Robb's ghost returned that night, she stared at him, trembling, but did not reach for the wine at her table. Instead she poured it out on the floor.

Her nails were white with how tight she gripped the horn, waiting for his reply, preparing.

But then Jon reached out his hand. He was so warm when his fingers brushed against hers, gently prying her grip from the horn to engulf her hand in his. When she found the courage to look up at him, his eyes were soft, but not with pity. Something like  _understanding_ , there, instead. Acceptance. It was the most beautiful thing she had seen in a very long time.

Jeyne felt her eyes burn, and to hide them, she leaned her head down so her forehead rested on their entwined hands. When the first tear fell to his skin, she felt his free hand on her hair, stroking softly.


	4. From Winter to Summer Then Winter Again

_They danced through the day_   
_And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall_   
_From winter to summer then winter again_   
_'Til the walls did crumble and fall_

The last time she had seen Robb had been in the rain, the day she bid him farewell at Riverrun. She remembered wanting to go with him, wanting to stay at his side the way a good wife should, but he had denied her.

"I would be an insult to Lord Walder," he told her, stroking the side of her face.

"Please, Robb,  _please_." She had begged, gripping at his doublet. "Please let me come with you. I don't trust that man. O-or let them wed here at Riverrun." Or perhaps she was afraid the bride set up for Lord Edmure would be beautiful, thin and young and able to make his seed take root the night the wed. Maybe Robb would start finding fault with her if he went to the Twins and saw the bride he could have had. A prettier one, a more fertile one.

But Robb had left, and never returned.

Too soon, Jon took his hand from her hair, and brought it beneath their joined hands. He was so warm and it had been so long since someone had comforted her. Her brother, bless him, had tried, but when it became clear she would not be the sweet, happy sister he had always known, he had retreated from her.

When finally her tears had ceased, Jeyne straightened herself a little, her hair falling over her shoulder. She was ashamed, open and raw. When Jon finally spoke, he still held to her hand, and his voice was soft and gentle.

"Would you like me to escort you back to your chambers, my lady."

 _He makes himself distant, and yet he holds my hand_. Jeyne pulled her hand out of his, sitting back and slumping in her chair, her eyes still avoiding his.

"I want to sit a while longer." She remembered who she spoke to. "If it please, you." She did not insult him by calling him by his title. She had just wept openly in front of him, and admitted one of the worst memories she had. They were far past titles.

He nodded, lacing his fingers together as he leaned on his knees.

Her eyes caught sight of his bed, a modest thing pushed up against the corner, wide enough for him to sleep however he wished, but not so wide it could be considered lavish.

"Have you loved anyone, before?" it felt like her body was three steps forward, but her mind was three steps back, half watching on as she asked such a question. She wanted to specify—have you made love to a woman before? Have you kissed at the skin of her neck and shoulders? Have you looked upon her in the exposing light of day and not regretted the night before? Did you think of marrying her to keep her honest? When you parted, did she beg you not to leave her? Do you grieve for her? For what might have been?

But when King Jon's eyes looked into hers, she knew he had understood.

"Yes." The king replied after a long moment.

"What was she like?" He was silent, and somehow that was more terrible than anything he could have ever said about this woman. Jeyne swallowed the last of her ale, setting aside the horn when she was done.  _I've made him uncomfortable. He wants me to leave but is too kind to ask._ "You must have loved her very much." She stared at her hands, watching as her thumb ran over her hand.

Suddenly the king stood. "My Lady, I…" he looked at her a moment, seeming to be trying to find the correct words. "I am very tired."

Jeyne felt hollow. "Yes. Yes, of course, Your Grace. Forgive me."

That night, Jeyne grumbled as she undid the laces of her dress and as she washed the sweat of the day from her body.

"Oh, I'm King Jon, I'll let Jeyne bare her feelings all over the bloody floor but I'm too stiff to talk about  _my_  feelings. Oh, I'm King Jon, I'll pretend to be tired because I'm afraid of talking with Jeyne Westerling."

Robb met her eyes in the mirror, and—maybe she was a bit more drunk than she thought—she almost thought he was grinning.

The godswood was a peaceful place, and very often Jeyne would sit in the shade of the heart tree, watching as steam rolled from the hot spring's black water. She had left her faith in the south, and was glad for it. If there were gods, they were evil, and the south could keep them. Jeyne didn't pray anymore, but she liked the godswood.

The snow layered on the ground muffled Ghost's movements and Jeyne startled when the massive wolf seated itself next to her.

"I don't have any treats for you. You'll have to hunt." The wolf turned his red eyes towards her before shifting upwards. Staring, blinking and silent. "You see him too, don't you?" she murmured, gently running her fingers through his fur. Ghost's keen eyes flickered back to her face a moment, before returning to Robb's. "Have you always? Is that why you were so wary of me?"

"Jeyne?" her ghost had never spoken to her before. Jeyne was frozen into stillness for a heartbeat, before she dared to turn and see who had spoken. A breath of relief left her to only find Jon standing, ankle deep in the heavy snow. "You know he can't talk back?" he grinned.

"I was counting on it." She countered, continuing to stroke the animal's head.

"May I sit with you, my Lady?" he asked, walking forward.

"I am a guest in your home. You don't need permission." She reminded.

"I do not want to intrude."

Jeyne's lips pulled up in a little grin. "You could never." Ghost enjoyed her touches so much, he laid out on the snow beside her.

When the king sat, he sat across from her, the distance between them nothing but respectful. After a moment, he spoke.

"The first woman I ever loved was a wildling named Ygritte. She had red hair—kissed by fire, the wildlings call it. It means she was lucky. She shot three arrows in me when she found out I was still loyal to the Watch." He spoke in a measured tone of voice, almost as though he had practiced those words to reveal just enough information without divulging too much.

Jeyne thought for a moment. "If she had wanted you dead, she wouldn't have missed. She'd have aimed for your face, that's what I would do. You wouldn't be alive to speak of her. She  _loved_  you."

Jon was silent for a long time. "Aye, she loved me. And I loved her. And she died." He hoped she didn't ask how she had died.

Jeyne's heart ached, the pieces broken so long ago flaring up in their hateful, continuous throb. "What a horrible thing it is." She ignored the urge to look up at Robb. At least she still had him, in some way. Jon didn't have his wildling girl.

The king's face was soft, almost sad. "Aye," he murmured.

A long silence followed them, and as tears started to fill Jeyne's eyes, she spoke before she could fall too deep into her sadness. "So, a  _wildling_?" she smiled, hoping he took her gentle, watery smile and continued. "She sounds absolutely wonderful." Perfect for Jon, really. A woman of the  _true_  north, a woman forced in ice and hardship, strong and  _lucky_ , as he said.

Jon only smiled, and they enjoyed the peace of the godswood together, not speaking further of loves lost.

She was so tired. So very, very tired. One night, as she and Jon sat by the fire, a cup of wine in her belly for courage, she let her desperation for sleep overcome her.

"Can I lie next to you?" she's asked, her voice soft as a mumble. Jon snapped his neck around to look at her, his eyes holding no anger but only shock. Jeyne clung to that. "I mean…only next to each other, going no further." She shifted uncomfortably, hoping he would grant her mercy and answer quickly.

"It…it wouldn't be right." He said.

"Only for sleep, Jon. I swear." She wanted to sleep, so badly. The thought of using some potion frightened her. She would live her life, a ghost just as much as Robb, no matter that her blood was warm. " _Please_." There must have been something desperate and soft in her voice, because after a moment of regarding her carefully, the king turned to his bed and sat down at the edge of it.

With shaking breath, Jeyne stood and walked to the bed, feeling as trembly as a foal taking it's first steps. She sat on the bed beside him, feeling the cool patchwork of furs beneath her fingers _. It isn't right_. She was so tired.

She stared at the fire intently as Jon moved to lie back, stiff and still dressed on top of his fine, soft furs. Jeyne hadn't been in bed with a man in five years, not since Robb. With steady hands, she reached down and carefully unlaced her boots, setting them neatly beneath the bed. Robb was always so warm, so solid around her. He always smelled so good. Carefully, she drew up her legs, and lay back on the soft featherbed, still as clothed as Jon was.

For a moment, they lay stiff beside each other, fearing that movement of any kind would bring the whole Keep crashing down upon them for the taboo nature this meeting had taken on. And yet Jeyne felt such a sweet  _relief_  to lie next to a man, someone warm and solid and  _breathing_. Someone she could touch.

His bed smelled wonderful. Soothing. Like sweat and boiled leathers, and Ghost and Jon.  _Jon_.

For a moment, the relief overwhelmed her, and it was all she could do to conceal it.

But then she caught sight of Jon's hand, tense and resting at his side, his thumb rubbing over the knuckle of his first finger. Her hands were settled over her midsection. It would be so easy to slip her hand down, wrap her fingers around his, pull them close to her chest. She could touch him, he would be  _warm_.

Suddenly, without warning, Jeyne began to cry. It started off as little gasps, as though her air had been squeezed from her lungs. But soon enough, they shifted into deep, wracking sobs that shook her whole body.

It was then, Jeyne realized how lonely she was. Even with the Starks and their nightly suppers, even with Ser Davos and Maester Sam and the other inhabitants of the castle—even with Jon. She was lonely. So desperately  _alone_ , and had been for five years.

How had her life become  _this_? She had dreamed of weddings and bedding ceremonies, of children and the names she wanted to give them, of soft kisses and warm nights and now she only dreamed of a peaceful nights sleep.

Jeyne cried harder, so hard Jon moved to pull her body tight against his. Jeyne hated herself for the sweet, all encompassing relief she felt as she listened to his racing heart beneath her cheek.

How could she be happy when the ghost of her husband lingered by the doorway, watching his wife and his brother hold to each other in bed?

"Jeyne…" she heard him whisper, distant and far off. She thought he started to move away, and she wrapped her arms around him tighter.

"No, please," She sobbed, feeling her tears wet against his doublet. Her legs moved and curled around one of his. " _Please_  don't leave me, Jon." The thought was unbearable, and she would die if he did, she thought.

But he didn't go. He didn't shove her away, didn't get up and order her to leave. Instead, he shifted closer. The last thing Jeyne remembered before falling asleep was Jon running his hand through her hair.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so peacefully.

The next morning, Jon had gone.

Their night had not gone unnoticed, and soon enough, the Lady of Winterfell was made aware, and confronted the King within his private solar.

"It isn't  _appropriate_ , Jon." Sansa warned him. When he didn't turn away from the fire to look at her, she took his arm and jerked him around to face her. She was almost urged to be silent when she saw the look on his face. Almost. "She's Robb's wife, his  _widow_. For you to-to  _dote_  on her as you do, rumours will start."

Slowly, Jon lifted his chin to defend himself. "I am being kind to our brother's widow. Where is the harm in that?" They had not had another night together since then, a sennight before. Jeyne hadn't even remained behind to treat with him. He missed her.

"It's more than that, though, isn't it?" Sansa spat, outrage on her face. She was more open to Jon than she was to anyone else. She trusted him more than she trusted anyone else, and she would not let him put himself in danger. "Robb lost the north for her, why wouldn't you be captured by her as well?"

"That isn't fair, not to her nor to Robb!"

"But is it true? That is all that matters."

"No, it isn't." His sister seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, her shoulders falling as she searched his face for any lie.

A brief moment of silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the fire. "You should send her to Riverrun, to Uncle Edmure. He was close enough to Robb, he will take care of her there. She would be under his protection." Sansa would sleep easier if that woman was out of her castle before morning. She liked Jeyne, she was as sweet as she was sullen. But Jon was their king, and he needed a northern wife. Not their brother's scraps.

"And forced to suffer living under his  _Frey_  wife and his  _Frey_  son." Jon spat back. "How long would it be until they tear each other apart? Or Jeyne throws herself into the river?" She had told him of her plans to avoid being forced to wed a second time, and never wanted her to think of death as her only escape  _again_.

"You are not her keeper, Jon. She is free to live as she pleases."

"It pleases her to live here."

"How would you know that?" Sansa demanded, her Tully blue eyes flashing for the briefest moments. For half a heartbeat, she reminded him of her mother, and he shrunk back a little. "What do you talk about when you're alone in your chambers, when we all leave?"

" _Enough_ , Sansa." Jon hissed out, frustration turning his voice into a growl. "I will hear no more of it."

"Do you love her?" She asked before he could dismiss her again. Truly, that was what she feared. Men were often blinded by love for women. Robb had been, and it had gotten him killed. If Jeyne Westerling lusted after the power of a queen, she would have to go through Sansa before she let her harm her family twice over.

"No more!" he thundered. Sansa was silent, panting in the wake of her brother's fury.

"Choose a  _northern_  wife, and be done with it." She ordered before turning to leave.

* * *

The lump of fabric in her lab would be a blanket. A little blanket for Maester Sam's wife, Gilly. She was pregnant again, the couple's third child, and Jeyne wanted to give them a gift. Babies were blessings, and she only wished to offer what she could to the next little life that would come into the world.

She had always wanted children—a whole mess of children, at least seven. She had mostly wanted boys but a girl or two who she could dress up and weave ribbons into their hair would be welcome.  _I will never have a child_ , she thought. She must content herself somehow, and she found joy in the babes of her friends.

She wondered if she would ever be allowed to see or hold Jon's children. Lady Sansa had invited her for a private luncheon three days before, and as they nibbled at their meal and sipped at their tea, the Lady of Winterfell asked her if she was happy in the north, and if there was any place else she would like to see.

"You're a free woman, Jeyne. Luckier than most because you aren't held back by anything. Free to live where and as you choose." Her words were kind and sweetly uttered, but Jeyne couldn't be fooled, even though she wished to be. It was not difficult for her to realize Sansa was asking her to think of somewhere else to live.

The rejection cut her deeply, and since then, she avoided leaving her chambers.

Movement came from the corner of her eye, and Jeyne paused to look who it was. Robb stood there, straight and tall but this time he didn't look sad. In fact, he grinned at her. Something warm filled Jeyne's heart and she beamed back.

When he held out his hand, she hesitated, wondering what he intended. For a horrible, fleeting second, she feared she had died and he held out his hand to take her to the next life. But when her hand was supposed to meet his, it only passed through cold air.

Jeyne regarded him curiously, wondering what he was doing, but he only nodded back at their hands. Carefully, she laid her hand over his, feeling nothing but cold, empty air. Yet it looked real enough. She could imagine warm skin, a strong hand tightening around hers to remind her she was safe. Cared for.

She pressed her palm close to his went he raised it, and when his feet moved, she suddenly knew what he intended to do. Her belly lurched, and she could feel the burn of happiness in her eyes, a wide smile on her lips.

Her feet moved, mirroring his, a slow shuffle. She hardly remembered the steps.

She had danced, so very long ago. At her wedding, if a septon being brought to Robb's room could be called a wedding. There had been no music, and yet she and Robb had danced, warm and happy and  _so_  in love for one brief, shining moment. When she'd pressed her cheek against his chest, and he pressed his temple against her hair, slowly swaying them as the silence filled the air, Jeyne knew then that she loved Robb with all her heart.

The war stole all their opportunities for happy moments, and so the brightest jewel of her time with Robb had been the night they wed.

But now she twirled, her gown flaring out, as close to her husband as she had been in years. She almost wished she were dead, if only to have this moment last forever.

The words of an old, sad song flittered through her mind, suddenly. _High in the halls of the kings who are gone Jenny would dance with her ghosts._ Jeyne laughed.

Once more, she settled herself in front of him, her smile dimming when she felt the cold air brush over her hands. But his smile never faded, and they danced a few moments more.

But finally, one last spin, and Robb was gone. Her confusion had her looking around her room, hair falling over her shoulders. Her stomach dropped.

He'd never just left her this way.

 _Gone_.

She looked for him, searching for his form. Her blood was rushing in he ears, her heart pounding.

 _Gone_.

Her knees met the cold stone, and she wept. Her tears burned her eyes like vinegar, and her throat could not be rid of the lump that had formed.

Robb was gone.


	5. The Ones Who Had Loved Her The Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me.

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone_   
_Jenny would dance with her ghosts_   
_The ones she had lost and the ones she had found_   
_And the ones who had loved her the most…_

Rumours began to swirl through the cold winter air before long.

Truly, the northerners found it strange that their king would bring his brother's widow back from the south with him. "A western treasure," they murmured in derision, "The White Wolf's spoils." Some might have thought Jeyne a hostage, but few believed it. House Westerling was too low to be of any importance among the other western lords. Truly, more were inclined to think that King Jon had brought back his brother's widow to punish her, somehow.

Yes, they knew their king was honorable and kind, but there are other ways of punishing traitors without marring their skin. Sansa Stark knew that best of all. With kindness and courtesy, the Lady stamped out the rumours and Winterfell treated Jeyne with the upmost respect.

And still over the months, Jeyne was still regarded as an outsider, an interloper, the key to King Robb's downfall. The North Remembers. Beyond the walls of Winterfell, Jeyne Westerling was thought of with suspicion. Why had she come, if the king had extended an invitation? Why not remain south with her own people, instead of settling with her husband's people?

"Because King Jon is kind, and Lady Westerling has been hurt by the south as much as any northern woman who lost her husband in the war." The assumptions softened some at that. Though she was not, and could never be a northerner, Jeyne had lost her northern husband to Lannister treachery and women tended to be kinder to other women who had suffered as they had.

Then Jon invited her to stay behind and talk after their supper was done. Before Sansa's eyes, the rumours swelled. Missives and maids, stewards and smiths, cooks and butchers alike all pondered about it. It didn't help that it happened almost every night, no matter that the western woman only stayed for an hour at most.

It wasn't  _difficult_  to ease the worries of the people who thought the king might be enamoured with his brother's widow. Jeyne still wore black to make the world see her mourning. Jeyne had been the last person in Winterfell to see and know Robb before he had died. Was it so impossible that the king only wanted to reminisce about their shared loss?

Sansa grew more concerned about how often she had to dampen the flame of these rumours. But words were wind. So long as they remained untrue, Jon was safe. She urged Jon to marry soon, to secure his reign with an heir, mothered by a woman of good northern stock.

The final straw was when a maid reported to that Jeyne had emerged from the king's chambers early in the morning. Sansa was only thankful that most of the castle still slept.

But Sansa had little need to scold the both of them. After the incident, the two seemed to distance themselves from each other. Jeyne declined the invitation to supper more often, and hadn't treated with Jon privately since then. Perhaps they had tried and been too ashamed to look at each other. Perhaps never again.

Sansa could only hope whatever lie between them had quenched and would never be reignited. Yet still, Jon refused to speak of marriage even as she hosted half a dozen prospective northern brides under his nose.

* * *

The castle was dark as she hurried through the corridors, leaving nothing behind but a shadow that was gone in a blink. Jeyne was no stranger to Winterfell at the darkest time of night, but never had she moved so quickly through it.

In the weeks since Robb left her the last time, she had been closed off. She only treated with the Starks two or three times since then. She felt so alone, she felt like the final tie between her and Robb had been cut. She was a free floating piece of driftwood, now lost at sea.

_You're a free woman_ , Sansa Stark had said.  _You aren't held back by anything_.

If she went to Jon, she knew should could curl herself into his arms and loose herself to the warm feeling of being comforted, but Jeyne did not think she deserved it anymore. Robb had left her, and he would never return. Perhaps she'd driven him away as she grew closer to Jon. Maybe if she distanced herself from the king, Robb would come back but she doubted it. It was just something she told herself at night to keep from finding herself at Jon's chamber doors.

It was as though the scar of her grief had been torn open again, but this time, the wound was healing differently.

It was strange not to see him. She'd gone so many years with him walking at her side, a phantom, the pale reflection of the life they almost had together. In some ways, no longer having him was a relief, but new questions had arisen. Where was he now? Was he alone and cold? Was he afraid or was he happy, restful, peaceful? Did he see his mother and father again? The wondering was terrible.

As the weeks went on and Jeyne ate less, and slept more, oddly enough. Or, rather, she found she could lay abed for hours at a time without being inclined to get up and see the faces of Winterfell.

Nearly two moons after their last dance, she had decided to visit the godswood and quickly found another had decided to visit as well. He sat in his wheeled chair before the tree whose eyes wept red tears. Just the sight of him made her flesh prickle with unease. She had not seen him in weeks.

"Oh, forgive me, Lord Bran, I will not intrude." Jeyne hastily began her retreat.

"Jeyne," he called out in that strange, detached voice of his. She paused, turning towards the strange young man. His eyes were dark like Jon's but they were devoid of the life all other men his age had. "He loves you, you know." She frowned, her feet shifting closer. "He will never admit it until you do. But he does."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know. Ever since Robb left you, you've known." Jeyne timidly stepped closer to him, afraid but unable to turn and flee. She felt transfixed, strangely excited by the idea that someone else could know about Robb. "He won't be back again, I promise you."

Jeyne's eyes burned at the confirmation. How Bran Stark knew one of her most precious secrets was beyond her, but she could not question how he knew. "Where has he gone?" she choked out.

"Where he was supposed to go." His answer was vague, and Jeyne longed to know exactly where he was, but she didn't. She was afraid to know, really. And yet there was peace to be found in knowing he'd gone  _somewhere_.

"It isn't right." She whispered, shaking her head. It wasn't right that Robb had taken her and married her, it wasn't right that her mother stopped their sons from being born, it wasn't right that the Frey's butchered Robb, it wasn't right that she had fallen in love with his brother. Nothing was right.

"No." He agreed, his voice soft, almost like he was sad. Or feeling something he vaguely remembered as sad. "But it is." Was Bran's cryptic reply.

"What does that mean?" Her tears spilled over, and she wanted to curl up right there on the ground, and let the snow bury her.

"It means everything that has ever happened to you has led you here. To Winterfell. With Jon."

"That can't be true." She denied it at once.

"You've been grieving for weeks. Why are you in the godswood now, talking to me? Why are you in Winterfell at all?"

_I was invited,_  she wanted to scream, her mind working fast. But then why had Jon invited her? He wanted to help her. Why? Because he loved his brother. Why did he invite her to stay with him after everyone else had gone? Why did he ask why she didn't want dreamwine? Why did he let her lie beside him for comfort, and then held her as she wept? Why did he still invite her to sup with him and his siblings after she pulled away? Why had he come to her thrice since then, asking her, half begging her to explain what had happened why she wanted nothing to do with him?

"You know why. Deep down." Bran said at length, as though reading her thoughts.

"But why?" Bran only looked away, his face impassive as ever. A lump formed in her throat. " _Why_?" she demanded. She thought of grabbing his fur cloak, of shaking him and striking him.

"Happiness does not last forever, Jeyne." He stared at the face of the heart-tree, eyes set on it's red, weeping face. "Take it where you can."

"What  _are_  you?" was all she could think to ask, then. "You aren't right; I knew it since the moment I saw you." In the courtyard that day, she'd spied Bran Stark with curiosity, tinged with sorrow, but he looked out at the world with a penetrating stare that told of a life that had seen too much in too few years.

"And I knew you walked with a ghost the moment I saw  _you_." He replied, looking at her once again.

Stunned, Jeyne stumbled from the godswood, Bran's words echoing in her ears. Three nights later, she left her chambers in a hurry, fearing her courage would desert her the moment she stopped at his doors.

The king's chambers were unguarded, a stupid choice in her opinion, but Jon would say all the protection he needed at night was his wolf.

With shaking hands, Jeyne knocked at his door, and it felt like only a heartbeat later that the door opened and Jon appeared. Still dressed in his leather doublet and his leggings and his boots, Jeyne felt a little better to know he'd been just as awake as she had been.

"Can I come in?" she asked, hoping her voice was strong. He opened the door wider for her to slip through. His chambers are empty, and the bed is immaculate. He hadn't been sleeping when she came, and the thought calmed her some.

"Is something the matter, my lady?" his courtesies were always a way to put space between them.

"I feel I have been very unfair to you, Your Grace." Her hands clenched around each other. Jon looked away, silent and listening. "I'm sorry." Was all she could manage to say. "I'm sorry, so sorry. I-I was afraid."

"Of what?" he asked, frowning. He was afraid too, Jeyne knew. She knew it the morning she woke up in his bed and found the other side cold and empty. She knew it when he wouldn't meet her eyes all day, and knew it when he skipped supper that night to meet with Ser Davos and a few other northern lords.

He was afraid, and she had been relieved at that. She had wanted it to make them avoid each other, to destroy this delicate thing growing between them before it had a chance to grow.

Now she was here, trying to mend the rift.

She wet her bottom lip. "I care for you so much. And it terrifies me." The admission was softly spoken, a simple fact that was stated. "I'm still terrified, but I'm  _more_  afraid of doing nothing."

Jon looked at her for a long moment, and for the first time, she did not feel the urge to squirm under scrutiny. Before, she had feared what others saw when they looked at her. Had they seen her slain husband? Do they see the one who caused his downfall? Could they see her grief? Or did they see madness? Could they know the phantom that walked beside her, something she could not say was real or a mad imagining.

But Jon never looked at her like that. He saw something else, something that made her warm.

"I missed you." Jon mumbled.

A sudden breath left her, one she hadn't known she'd been holding. "I missed you too." She felt tears in her eyes as she rushed over to embrace him. Jon's arms folded around her, not a question on his lips and pressed her tight against him.

He was solid. He was warm. His heart was strong beneath her ear. Jeyne, for once, did not weep for this. She felt protected. Cared for.  _At home_.

Jeyne thought that whatever unease had settled between them would simmer into nothing after they reconciled. She supped with the Starks again, she walked through the halls with a purpose. She smiled and it did not feet forced. She gifted the baby blanket to Gilly, and wished her good fortune.

But three days later, she could not stand it any longer, and found herself making the same familiar rush to the king's chambers. Only this time, she did not knock.

Jon was lying in bed when she shut the door behind her, a soft click sounding as she locked it. Ghost looked up from his place at the fire, blinking his red eyes at her but he was unmoved. Perhaps he'd sensed her before she came in.

Jon's startled eyes met hers half a heartbeat later, and any uncertainty that lingered in Jeyne's heart melted away.

Without a word, she took unfastened the seashell pin holding her cloak, and let the garment fall in a heap to the floor. She wore her shift beneath, a loose thing of cotton, the sleeves clinched at her wrists and under her breasts. In the firelight, he could see the shape of her legs, and the dark patch of hair at the apex of her thighs.

"Jeyne, what—?" whatever he was about to say died on his lips, because suddenly Jeyne rushed forward and got into the bed, one leg swinging over his body so she straddled him. The silence was deafening as they stared at each other, their breaths coming heavier. When her hands came to rest on either side of his face he swallowed dryly.

_She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be doing this. It isn't right._ She was warm on top of him, a weight he hadn't felt on him in years. Jon's throat bobbed.

Finally, she ended their misery. Her lips touched his with the gentleness and shyness of a maid giving a boy her first kiss. It became something more soon enough—he pressed his mouth harder against hers, and licked at her lips to encourage her to open. When she did, the world suddenly rushed back to him.

"Jeyne, wait. Stop." He held her face in his hands, staring up at her.

Jeyne's soft hand stroked the side of his face. "We deserve happiness, Jon." She whispered and Jon slipped his hands down to grip at her waist, as though intending to throw her off. "We've suffered enough. Neither gods nor ghosts can deny us this comfort."

"Robb would run me through if he found me here, now." And still, his hands did not leave her waist.

"He was my husband, I knew him best." Jeyne shook her head, soft brown hair brushing over his pale skin. They said she'd cut it to the scalp when Robb was killed, baring her grief for all to see. It had been years now, and her chestnut hair fell past her shoulders. "He would have prayed for my happiness. I'm only twenty and three. Too young to let the ghost of my husband haunt me out of any sort of joy. I love Robb, part of me still does and I doubt I shall ever stop my grieving for him. But he's gone, and I remain."

He looked away from her at the mention of his brother, the husband on the woman on top of him. Guilt twisted in his gut.

Jeyne sensed it. "Please, Jon. Set it all aside, only for tonight."

He studied her for a long moment, and Jeyne felt his hands tightening around her. Then, his hands started moving around her. Slowly. Cautiously.

"There's no going back after this. Not ever."

"I know."

"You'll be mine, and Robb's."

"No." She shook her head, her hair tickling his face. "No. Robb is gone. Truly gone. I would only be yours." She couldn't tell him about Robb's farewell, couldn't tell him about his ghost. She wanted to tell him Robb must have known, that he must understand. But she couldn't. She stroked her fingers over his cheek, feeling the prickles of his beard.

Slowly, she leaned back down, her lips lingering above his before pressing pecking down once, briefly, unsure if he would push her away again. But searched her eyes once more, his hand clenching around her waist, and suddenly leaned up to kiss her again.

She doesn't think of Robb when Jon's hands slip beneath her nightgown. His hands are so warm, and they hold her tight but not too tight. She doesn't think of him when her fingers slowly start unlacing his breeches. She doesn't think of Riverrun when Jon slips his hand between her thighs, making her ready for him. She doesn't think of the Twins when he pushes inside her, a soft moan on her lips. She doesn't think of the vows she made when she listens to Jon pant in her ear, whispering her name like it was the only word he knew. She doesn't think of the Red Wedding when she looks into his eyes afterward. She doesn't think of anything but Jon.

And she was happy.

Jon was happy too. At night, he would murmur to her about wanting to marry her, to make their feelings known and legitimate before the eyes of gods and men. He would have his arm curled around her, her head resting on his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his heart, running her hands over the scars on his chest. (Only once when she laid with Jon did she think of Robb, and it was only to remember how that evil, sadistic monster named Bolton had delivered the killing stab to Robb's heart. She was so happy he died at the hands of his own bastard.)

She never said no. She would only curl tighter around him, hoping she could stop his impossible wishes with her warmth and softness.

It seemed to work for a time.

Then he mentioned it to Ser Davos.

Jeyne knew not the words exchanged between them. She knew only the aftermath.

It was not as thunderous as Jeyne had always feared. Yet it hurt her heart all the same.

"Lady Sansa will not hear it, not from me." He promised her as they stood before her fire, leaning forward slightly. "But I promised King Jon I would give him my most honest advice to run this kingdom. And if he marries you, he will be choosing  _wrong_."

"You think I don't  _know_  that?" she managed to bite out after a few moments. "You think I don't know what they see when they look at me? I'm  _famous_ , Ser Davos, in the most terrible way. The queen who killed her king by marrying him at all…"

"Then end it, my Lady." He urged, his brows narrowed intensely. "Please, before it goes any farther," Jeyne was silent, and turned away from him to stare out the window, Winter Town just barely visible over the top of the walls. "His Grace is already preparing to tell his sister of his desire to marry you, and bind the west and the north once more. That's his reason for it. You know it will not be accepted."

"Yes, all too well."

"Please, my Lady. For Jon's sake." She wanted to hate Ser Davos, then, but she couldn't. He loved his king, and wanted his line to rule for generations. So did Jeyne. And they both knew Jon's sons would not rule through her.

Davos wanted her to severe the bond at once, because he knew it could never last forever.

A soft hearted woman Jeyne was, she almost could believe the Hand meant it as a kindness. To spare her and Jon the pain.

"You cannot have Jon  _and_  a home in the north, my lady."

Despite the old man's sage and heartfelt advice, Jeyne could not bring herself to refuse Jon when he came to her at night. She was selfish. She was happy. She was in love.

Nothing lasts.

When her moons blood did not come, and her belly started swelling, she knew she'd have to leave. Quickly, before rumours started, before they all knew that their assumptions were correct.

A king couldn't have a bastard in his court, and she doubted Lady Sansa would abide her. She had already lost one brother because he had loved Jeyne Westerling. She knew the girl would not risk another.

And Jeyne agreed. Jon was good, he was kind, and he would wed her the day she told him he'd gotten a child on her. For a moment, she would be happy, in love and dream of the son who would inherit Jon's kingdom…then it would be snatched away, stolen either out of rage, jealousy, ambition or some monstrous combination. It would anger his lords, their daughters would weep for wondering why the king had found his brother's widow so much more appealing than northern maids. They would question his competency as king, they would turn on him, they would dishonour him.

Jon would be weak, he would be vulnerable. Jon would die.

She would not allow that to happen—she would drown herself in her own bathwater before she allowed Jon to die.

"My Lady, I think it is time for me to return home." She had said to Sansa. The Lady of Winterfell gave her a carriage, food for travel, ten guards and wished her good fortune.

She told Jon second and made sure he knew. Foolishly, she had hoped that his anger and hurt would make the separation cleaner. It only made it hurt more. He had tried to stop her, to convince her to stay, promised to marry her and give her children. He promised no crown—he knew too well.

"You can be my consort, not my queen." He promised her a few nights before her departure back to the Craig.

"A king cannot rule without a queen." She replied with a shake of her head.

"Then I would be the first." Jon declared stubbornly. "You would be my wife. The mother of my children." Jeyne looked away from him at that. "I would never let anything happen to you Jeyne. I promise."

"You're the king. You need a queen and I cannot be it." Her voice was final. Jon fought. But short of ordering her to remain in Winterfell, Jeyne would go. Once, long ago, he promised never to order her to do anything she did not want to do.

He kept that promise.

As Winterfell disappeared into the mist of the early morning fog, Jeyne hoped when Jon learned of her child, he was already wed to his northern wife. Worse yet, hopefully, he would have sired a child on her.

Jeyne wanted her child to know their father. It gave her no greater joy that to imagine a life where Jon held their newborn in his arms, smiling down at them, kissing their brow, holding them aloft in his hands as his northern lords toasted the king's heir. She could imagine him holding out his arms to help them learn to walk, holding them safely as he taught them to ride their first pony, running after them when he was afraid they ran towards destruction…

Jeyne wept when she turned her eyes from Winterfell, half hoping that the king would send a rider to stop the carriage.

He never did.

_And she never wanted to leave_   
_Never wanted to leave_   
_Never wanted to leave_   
_Never wanted to leave…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well what do you think?
> 
> (I was, low-key, thinking of maybe perhaps making a sequel to this? Brief and sweet at some point.)
> 
> Please review :D


End file.
